The scars that define us
by SpellotapedSnidget
Summary: In every one's life there's a moment when the happiness slips away. The question is: Will we stand up again every time we fall? Will we learn how to live a happy life in spite of the scars covering our souls? Collection of one-shots. Currently: Fred and George Weasley
1. Godric Gryffindor

_**Disclaimer:** All characters featured in this and future stories of this collection belong to the magnificent J.K. Rowling. I just play a bit in her world._

 _ **A/N:** This is a collection of mostly short one-shot which pop through my mind. As the title suggests I'm trying to capture different moments which feature emotional or physical scars and are therefore mostly sad or tragic. Nevertheless, I try to pepper the collection with some funny or fluffy stories – we'll see how that works out. I'd love to get your opinion on my stories and writing and any tips would be highly appreciated!_

 _ **A/N:** I also publish these stories in German (my native language). Some of them will be originally written in English others in German and will be translated afterwards. Sadly, this doesn't always go as I plan so if you have any tricks on the matter – I'll take them all! (if anybody would like to guess the original language of the individual stories – you're more than welcome to do so)_

* * *

 **Godric Gryffindor**

* * *

His hands were still balled into fists. As if from far away, he acknowledged his bleeding knuckles. The color seemed to match his clothes oddly well. The wounds weren't deep, just scraped skin, nevertheless a single blood drop fought his way out of the area of his index finger. He followed the ruby red liquid with his eyes as it slowly blazed a trail down his hand. He pondered if the gravity would be strong enough for the small drop to reach the other side of his fist. As if in trance he traced his blood until the small quantity finally separated itself from his hand to fall into the depth. He didn't feel anything when the drop hit his leg and even though he knew where it had landed he couldn't detect a difference in his robes. Red had always been his favorite color.

How could it have come so far?

Of course he had noticed the increasing tension between them. It hadn't been the first argument they had had. But at what point had their discussions morphed into fights? When had they begun to hate each other?

They had been best friends. No one had been able to separate them, not once in all this time. Their differences had always complemented them perfectly. Only because of that had it been possible to create all this. But now he was gone. He had left him. Or had it been he himself who had sent him away? It didn't matter. There had been something final to their argument that he couldn't deny. He knew, he wouldn't come back.

Slowly, he stood up staring at the wall on which one could faintly detect the bloody tracks of his tantrum. Briefly he thought about apologizing to the building. Of course that was a silly thought. Only because his whole heart had been put in it didn't mean that Hogwarts had a soul.


	2. Dean Thomas

**Dean Thomas, 6th year**

* * *

He loved her or at least he was as close to loving as he'd ever been. But as he caught her staring at Harry again his heart dropped.

She could tell him over and over again that she only liked him as a friend. She could explain again that he was Ron's best mate and therefore almost family. He didn't buy it.

Sometimes he caught himself wishing that she believed in what she said. That she didn't _want_ to hurt him. But could she really haven't noticed that she laughed louder about Harry's jokes than anyone else's? Did she really not spot herself touching him as often as the situation would allow? That she seemed desperately craving for his presence?

He didn't know what he was waiting for exactly. Definitely not to find them snogging in a corner. His face scrunched up in disgust at the thought. They had fought more than anything else the last few weeks anyway. Not only over Harry. It seemed every topic railed them up nowadays.

So why couldn't he let her go? Why did his heart ache that much at the very thought of losing her? Why didn't he admit to himself that he already had?

He flinched slightly as she turned her face to him. The dreamy smile with which she had regarded the black haired boy had morphed into one of polite indifference.

Would it really hurt more than this to let her go?


	3. Theodore Nott

**Theodore Nott**

* * *

Malfoy Manor. The entrance to the impressive estate in front of his nose, standing next to his father he waited for one of the pitiful houseelves to react to their knocking. Theo repressed a sigh as artificial laughter wafted from the hall next door. Actually it shouldn't have bothered him anymore. Such boastful festivities had been attended by him since he could remember and honest words were rarely spoken there. On the other hand the boy doubted that such events could go smoothly when performed in another way. After all, the only common element between the people in the room next door was their purity. Or their claim on it. Nevertheless he yearned for a real, an honest interaction. For only one evening on which he hadn't to rethink five times before choosing a tea.

"Theodore! Stop being strange."

The younger Nott cringed under the look of his father. It was a warning. Theo knew exactly how to place Nott Senior's low tone. Inwardly he scolded himself for letting his thoughts wander. In this society one shouldn't leave a dubious impression. Squaring his shoulders he marched through the archway into the hall and greeted the hosts in the best manners, just like he had learned since being a small child.

He was relieved when Mrs. Malfoy sent him to meet her son and the other adolescents. It wasn't as if he enjoyed their company more, rather he embraced every foot he could bring between his father and himself.

As he snaked his way through the hall he regarded the teens he was aiming for. Most of them were already attending Hogwarts, several of them were in his year. Pansy was laughing much too loud over a joke Draco had shared while Vincent and Gregory just stood behind the boy, grinning stupidly. Blaise tried to charm Daphne. Her younger sister stood annoyed next to them seemingly rolling her eyes every two seconds. He knew all of them since his or their birth. If you only mingled with purebloods the choice was restricted. Even so he had a hard time to get the word _friend_ over his lips. But then again he had always been the odd one of the group. Strange believes like unconditional support in a friendship didn't fit into the concept. At least not if a member of this society could be disgraced. Outwards they were a united front. Slytherins looked after each other. They had to. They were the enemy image of the school.

"Hey Nott! Finally, you're here!" Blaise Zabini called as he was only a few feet away.

Hastily the addressed person planted a grin on his face. It wouldn't do to let show how laughable he thought this declaration was. As if somebody had missed him.

"Well, you know what they say Blaise. Save the best till last." The bagatelle came easy to him. He was the jokester of their group. It let him appear less strange.

When he stepped into the circle of teenagers Blaise slapped him companionable onto his back. At the touch he flinched visibly and could only just stop his face from grimacing. Of course they noticed it anyway. It was one of those secrets everybody knew of but no one spoke about. Too uncomfortable, too deep for this society. But by now he recognized the reactions around him. Daphne, who hurriedly started an insignificant conversation. Blaise, who averted his eyes and searched desperately for something to do with his hand. And Draco, who held his gaze for a split second, his jaw clenched, his lips thin. He saw the murderous glint appear in his eyes before he turned back to Pansy. More, one couldn't expect. Sadly, he could tell so with a certainty only years of experience provide.

Friendship was a fleeting term, a pliable concept. At least here. When the chips are down nothing's left but a hollow sound. Just as no scars would remain on his back. A family with a pureblood name like Nott couldn't allow any impression of weakness.


	4. Petunia Dursley

**Petunia Dursley**

* * *

She stares at it. Long and hard. The black words are like cuts in the white paper.

She stares at it. She stares at it and yet she's not seeing it. Not understanding it. Not believing it.

Her eyes begin to water and she realises she forgot to blink. Her mind is interested in the way the letters blend together and form dark blotches, grey black clouds on the carefully laid out parchment.

Then she blinks and the sharpness is back. The order is back. Words on flatly laid out paper. Absently, she runs over it with her hands, smoothing out the crinkles that aren't there in the first place. She aligns the paper with the edge of the table, carefully measuring out the amount of wood that is visible between the white and the air.

She's not sucking in the air, her heart beats not faster and her hands don't tremble. Her eyes are dry of tears while she's rereading the letter.

It's not very long considering the topic. A madman, a murderer, had been at large and now disappeared mysteriously. People had died. Strange people. _Those_ people.

She does not understand why someone writes to her about _them_. She's got nothing to do with their lot. It's not until the last paragraph, a small space occupied by twelve lines that she understands.

There's no word of explanation, no circumstances nor are motives named. Nothing is said about other options. The words just tell her of the death of James and Lily Potter. The words tell her she's got to take care of her nephew. A child she has never met before.

The letter ends with words of condolence. It's an expression you can find on cards in most shops.

That's how Petunia Dursley learns of the death of her sister. That's how she learns that she won't ever talk to her again, never hear her laugh or cry again. That's how she learns there will never be a chance to make things right between them.

A letter. Twelve lines of dark ink.

She smooths out the parchment again and cuts her finger on the thin paper. A frown wrinkles her forehead as she notices the red blotch on the left side of the parchment. It's uneven now. No matter how often she smooths it out it can't be righted.

She stares at it while holding the letter over the candle. She stares at it until it fades into ashes. She stares at it while her world does the same.


	5. Fred and George Weasley

_**A/N:** First story that's neither sad nor dramatic! I'd love to know what you think about it :)_

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 **Fred and George Weasley (Age: 8 years)**

* * *

Fred balanced carefully on the rooftop of the old treehouse while George attached the almost invisible thread under the towel.

"Ok Fred, you can tie the bag to the other end now."

It was a hot summer day and the eight year olds were plotting their new prank. Today, their older brothers would return from Hogwarts. Certainly, they would jump right into the pond a few feet away to refresh themselves. However, when they picked up the towels they'd get a nasty surprise.

George grinned at the thought and looked up to his brother who leaned dangerously far over the treehouse.

"Oi Fred, be careful. Should I come up and help you?"

"I've almost got it. Just a tiny bit further…"

Fred grinned mischievously down to George after he had managed to attach the bag to the thread.

"See, no problem at al-AHH"

The piece of brittle banister Fred was holding on to with only one hand snapped and George had to watch helplessly as his brother fell. He flailed about wildly and miraculously could grasp a piece of the treehouse. He scraped along the wood with his right side until he flopped down onto a pile of leaves.

"Freddie, are you ok?" George ran so fast he almost stumbled over his brother.

"Yeah. Ouch…" Fred felt his right cheek carefully on which a deep gash was imprinted. As if on command both boys looked up and detected a nail which stuck out of the wood.

"That's going to turn into a scar. Mum won't be happy."

"A scar? But George, then everybody can distinguish us. All our pranks…"

"-like poking fun at old Bertram from the village-"

"-or get more presents out of Aunt Muriel!"

"We can't even make mum feel guilty anymore."

Fred look horrified at his brother and whispered: "We can't let that happen, George."

Again, both boys looked up at the fateful nail.

"Okay, okay I know what we do." Said George slowly and began to climb the treehouse. Shortly after, he returned with a nail and an old mirror.

"There!" George pressed the mirror and the nail into Fred's hands. "Regard the gash carefully but don't forget: it's mirror-inverted."

Fred looked surprised at the things in his hands and then back up to his brother who met his eyes determinedly. "But I can't just…"

"Yes, you can! You have to. We will always be one, Freddie! Be quick." George shut his eyes forcefully.

Shortly after, the two boys opened the kitchen door.

"There you are, Fred, George. Your brothers have arrived. I wanted to make some pancakes but I can't find the flour. Have you seen- oh Merlin."

When Molly Weasley turned around to be met with the bloody faces of her sons she lost all colour. She hurried over to inspect the twins' injuries carefully.

"What in Merlin's beard happened? Where did I put… Accio!"

A small flask flew into her hand which she carefully placed onto the table.

"Sit down, first I have to see something… Tergeo! And now look up, both of you."

Drop by drop, Molly put essence of dittany on her son's wounds. Immediately, the gashes healed.

Astonished, Fred and George felt their faces.

"We are bloody-"

"stupid." Fred nodded in agreement while George shook his head disbelievingly.

Suddenly a shriek came from outside.

"What now?" murmured Molly.

Just then Bill and Charlie entered, both covered from head to toe in flour.

All eyes fixated on the twins.

"Fred! George!"

"Who says that _I_ am Fred?"


End file.
